Page 55 of The Other Side

Together.

Always.

My fight with Jesse hurt, but this is an excruciating kind of pain. The kind of torture you’re convinced you’ll never bounce back from. You’ll never be the same after.

As much as I’ve had to adapt over the last ten years in Brant’s wake, this is the greatest punishment of all.

It’s officially over for us.

Over.

A dull burn blooms behind my eyes as I wet my lips. I shake my head, steering it to the side so I’m not burdened with his gaze. “You’re right. This was my fault,” I breathe. “I’m sorry.”

I turn and reach for the door handle, but his palm plants on the window. “Don’t even think about it,” he says from behind me. “I’ll tell her something came up, and she’ll be out of here. She’ll understand. Whatever you do, just don’t go,” he whispers, desperation gnawing his tone. “Please, just don’t fucking go.”

His voice singes my neck with a searing heat, and my pulse leaps. “That’s not a nice thing to do,” I retort softly, my stare wandering over the side of my car.

“It’s either that or we’re talking in front of her,” he counters. “Take your pick.”

Say no.

Say no.

No, Callie.

“Okay.”

“Give me five minutes.” He peels off the car, and I rotate to face him as he peers down at me. “I promise. No longer than that,” he assures.

I timidly nod, and Brant’s jogging up his driveway before I slump against the Range Rover. Within the next minute, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat.

I can’t explain why I agreed to stay.

Maybe it’s because I already made the effort to come out here. Maybe it’s because of my morbid curiosity.

Regardless, I came here tonight for one reason—to talk with Brant. About what, I’m still not sure. But I owe my heart that much.

I owe us that much.

After everything we’ve been through, after all the ups and downs, and after all the giant hurdles we’ve had to jump, Brant and I survived and lived to tell the stories. Our past wrote the prologue to the tale we’re writing now.

I can’t shake the feeling that our story is only beginning.

Chapter 18

Callie Rae

I follow Brant inside his house, the reclaimed wood walls of the living room greeting me at my right. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks, walking us to the kitchen.

“Yeah, water would be helpful,” I say.

I place my crossbody on the butcher block counter, briefly admiring the maple wood of the flat-panel cabinets. When I swivel around, my palms curl around the edge of the counter. I stare at his backside across the room, and Brant’s already filling a glass with water in the stainless-steel fridge door.

My throat rolls through a knot. He turns to offer me the drink, our eyes locking as I take it. “You’ve done a great job with the masculine décor,” I offer.

“Thanks,” he sighs, slipping his hands in his jeans pockets. Then his chin slopes toward the chandelier made of black metal. “We try to personalize as best we can without going overboard.”

My attention drifts as I sip the cold beverage. It lands on the slim hallway that’s perpendicular to the kitchen. I assume it leads to the bedrooms. “Where’s Sean?”